


The Dumbarton Principle

by 4ll4n



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4ll4n/pseuds/4ll4n
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This picks up where the season 4 finale left off.</p>
<p>With everyone far too busy trying to save the Warehouse from Paracelsus, there’s only one person for whom Myka is very much a priority. Helena will save her, even if she doesn’t yet know how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dumbarton Principle

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimer guff goes here. I don’t own these characters and this is pure fiction and not for profit.
> 
> This is a fix it fic for Myka's cancer arc and incidentally my very first fic, so please be gentle but do let me know your thoughts in the comments.  
> Nothing in there should offend anyone, however, bear in mind that there is this thing in the air about two women who happen to love each other.

## The visit

The room smelt of antiseptic and — bacon. H.G. Wells, wearing a cream-coloured trench coat, pushed the door open as Pete, sat next to the small hospital bed, was wrapping an enormous mouth around an equally sized sandwich.  
“I see there’s nothing wrong with your appetite,” she said raising a quizzical eyebrow.  
“Sorry,” he chomped guiltily, “no lunch. There’s little time to eat right now.” 

Earlier that afternoon, agent Pete Lattimer had been in touch with H.G. Wells to explain the last few days’ events, but for Helena, the bad news were not so much that Paracelsus had taken the caretaker crown from Mrs Frederic and ended up trapped in the Warehouse alongside a determined, apple-smelling Claudia. No, the bad news were the words cancer and Myka, so close together in a single sentence that Helena had felt her legs buckle and collapsed in the nearest chair, squeezing the pencil she’d been using all day while Pete had gone on telling of doctors, tests, surgery and prognoses.  
There, sat alone in that unbearably clinical forensics lab, a few seconds of torpor had felt like an eternity. _This can’t be happening. Why didn’t she call me?_ No, not after that event a few months ago when saying good bye had felt like ripping part of her soul to shreds. She had lied to Myka, to herself. It was no use trying to pretend that building a _normal_ life with a widowed man and his young daughter was the right choice. She, H.G. Wells, was too far removed from the norm, and Myka — well, Myka was the reason she was still here. And now, she was fading away… Helena couldn’t bear the thought.  
Littering the floor with test tubes and other scientific paraphernalia as she’d grabbed her bag and jacket, H.G. had rushed off home to unearth that precious artefact she’d been saving for a rainy day. 

So there she was, standing in the harsh light of the blue room, feeling the smooth surface of the brushed metal under her fingers as she nervously turned the cigar case inside her coat pocket, slowly bringing her gaze over to her sleeping friend, regular beeps resounding from the nearby monitor. 

“How is she?” she asked.  
Pete cocked his nose at the sandwich, or perhaps at the question.  
“The surgery went well but that’s about it,” he replied, tossing his half-eaten dinner in the nearest bin. “The doc wasn’t exactly optimistic about what they discovered.”  
Helena took a few steps towards the empty chair by the bedside, her eyes fixed on Myka’s seemingly peaceful face. She sat down, the cigar case safely rotating between her fingers.  
“I was afraid of that…” she uttered. “Pete… It’s a long shot but — I think I can help her.”  
“H - how?” he stammered. “The Warehouse is on lock-down and—”  
“I know,“ she said, “I may have forgotten to turn in a certain artefact a little while ago.”  
Pete’s eyebrows lifted.  
“O-kay. I can’t say this is much of a surprise. You know Mykes would be furious, right?!”  
“I do and I think given the circumstances, you and I both know this could be her only chance. I just need you to cover for me.”  
“Hold on,” he said, raising his hand up hesitantly, “what kind of artefact are we talking about here 'cause — I kinda had the same idea.”  
“What do you mean?” she asked with a frown.  
“I mean, I kinda have an artefact I shouldn’t have too.” With a most obviously faked cheeky grin, he added, “Show you mine if you show me yours.”  
Helena shifted in her seat, about to reprimand him when he stopped her by raising both his hands in apology. He casually moved his left arm towards what looked like a small jewellery box on the bedside table, took it, and bringing it to his lap, let his fingers toy with it for a few seconds. Then, as a shameful boy would a forbidden object, he reached out to hand it over to his ex-fellow agent.  
With the gentlest care, Helena opened the purple velvet box to reveal a black, oval-shaped stone set firmly inside a weathered, slightly misshapen gold ring.  
“Mary of Guise’s Toadstone ring,” Pete explained. “That’s all I know about it apart from the fact that Mr immortal told me it would help her — amongst other things. Damn, I should’ve never listened to him! What an idiot! Anyway, I had it on me when we all left the Warehouse in a rush.”  
“Mary of Guise… Pete, that’s wonderful! What — What does it do?” she asked hurriedly.  
“That’s just it. I have no idea.” He began twirling a lose piece of cotton on his t-shirt.  
“Well, what were you waiting for? Let’s try it!” Helena snatched the ring out of its shelter and started fumbling with the bed sheets to uncover Myka’s hand.  
“Wait, no! H.G.!” Pete interrupted, and in defeat: “I already tried. It did nothing…” 

Helena stopped and stared at the vanquished man opposite her. She could now see the wariness, the hurt and the devastation inside him. He had tried — and failed, and there was nothing left for him to do but hope for a miracle. That was why he’d finally called her. Knowing how stubborn Ms Bering was, she’d bet her life she’d made him promise to keep this whole thing secret. 

“I’m so sorry Pete…” she whispered.  
With a swift sleeve motion, Pete wiped off the single glistening tear that had rolled down his cheek.  
“I’ll do it H.G.,” he said. “Whatever it is you need me to do. Just tell me about this artefact of yours.” 

So Helena took the metal case out of her pocket and told Pete the story of Dr Pierre Janet’s cigar. How she’d come across it on the scene of a possible murder investigation, immediately seen it for what it was and bagged it surreptitiously.  
During her years at Warehouse 12, she’d heard of Dr Janet’s avant-garde hypnosis theories and how successful he was at helping his patients. While the regents had seemed rather unperturbed by his success, her teacher, Caturanga, had always suspected the presence of an artefact that helped him enter his patients’ subconscious somehow and affect their body and mind in reality by influencing their dreams. Of course, neither H.G. nor Caturanga had ever been certain of the form in which the artefact might present itself or what its true effect would be, but as soon as she’d laid eyes on the cigar, Helena had known. Maybe the French inscription around the red band had done it, or the fact that even though it had been partly smoked and had seemingly sat in an ashtray for hours, no ash had remained and not even the faintest odour in the room.  
So she’d kept it safe, and today, she was unsure how, but she knew this most precious object could be the key to saving Myka by way of her dreams. 

“Wow,” Pete started, “that’s a long shot. I mean, I don’t know — Are you sure about this? No, scratch that. Of course you’re sure, you’re H.G. Wells. Okay, what do you want me to do?”  
Helena smiled, feeling a sudden surge of affection for the agent and his unconditional trust in her.  
“Thank you,” she said. “If this does what I expect it to do, all I ask is that you cover for me while I’m in her mind.” Fingers softly brushing across Myka’s forehead, she placed her other hand on hers. “Time slows down immensely in the subconscious. What will feel like days for me will probably only amount to a few minutes for you. Soon enough, Artie or the regents may try to contact me about this Warehouse situation. If I’m not back, you have to be ready to come up with an explanation as to why I cannot just show up and you _must_ keep them away from here.”  
Pete observed the woman’s intense dark eyes for a few seconds. Then slowly turning to look at his helpless partner, he said, “You can count on me.” He leaned over to put his hand over Helena’s. “Save her.” 

* * *

## Passage

Sitting by the bedside, Helena looked at the artefacts in her hands. One cigar, one ring. The odds had doubled.  
She popped open the cigar case, inhaling the potent tobacco but still hesitant to touch it.  
Pete had left a little while ago with the promise to keep people away from the hospital and a few reassuring words: “If anyone can do this, I know it’s you.”  
 _If anyone can do this… It has to be me._  
Suddenly conscious that she was about to attempt to light none other than a king-size cigar inside a hospital, she frantically looked around for smoke detectors. None, she asserted with relief.  
Blinds were down. Doors were shut. One deep breath and she lit up the artefact with a flick of the lighter she’d borrowed from the lab.  
Holding Myka’s hand, she drew from the cigar delicately and bringing her lips mere inches from her resting friend’s, exhaled a little smoke for both of them to breathe.  
In a cloudy haze of amber, the cigar went out almost instantly and while Helena sensed her body go limp with sleep, she felt her soul being swept away in a whirlpool of thought.  
The sensation only lasted for a few seconds but then, as the fog clouding both her mind and vision started to clear, she found herself sitting in the same exact spot she had been sitting in moments ago. Only something felt subtly different.  
It took her eyes some time to adjust to the brighter light in the room, and there were the faint sounds of voices reaching her ears getting progressively louder. 

“—told you everything would be fine! There really was no need to bring H.G. into this, Pete!”  
A bright and alert Myka was sitting in the very same bed they had both left behind seconds before. Helena looked around incredulously to size up the situation.  
“Sorry Mykes,” Pete said, “I thought H.G. should know. But it’s all good, right?! We know you’ve beaten that thing now the doc’s given you the all clear.” 

The situation made sense. Myka’s subconscious was in denial and Helena had entered it right at the point where she was dreaming that her surgery had been a success. 

“—have important things to do… Helena?” Myka stared at her with that inquisitive look of hers. “Helena?!”  
“Sorry, what was that?” H.G. stammered, shaken out of her pondering.  
“Snap out of it! Pete, you have told her about Paracelsus I hope?” The green-eyed agent was definitely her usual self here.  
“N — Not exactly,“ mumbled Pete.  
The pieces now put together in Helena’s mind, she intervened.  
“Yes, yes I do know about Paracelsus. The regents have been in touch and they have actually asked for my help.” She felt the jewellery box still firmly held in her hand and brought it up for all to see. “I have to investigate this.” She opened it.  
“Okay,” Myka said grabbing H.G.’s hand and examining the ring in detail, “Oh my God, that is a toadstone ring. My nanna had one. Interesting engraving inside it.”  
“Your _nanna_?” Pete grinned.  
“Hey!” she slapped his arm. “Quit goofing around, we’re in a crisis here! How’s this going to help us?”  
“Erm—“ Helena had to think quickly, “We don’t know yet, that’s why the regents asked me to investigate so if you two don’t mind, that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll call you both later.”  
And with that, H.G. Wells was out of the imaginary door as quickly as she’d never entered it. 

* * *

## Gungnir

“See that Pete? That’s how we should both be acting right now,” Myka pointed out after Helena had left. She started scrabbling around. “Where’s my Farnsworth?”  
“Here,” Pete handed her the device which she quickly opened and switched on.  
“Myka!” Artie exclaimed over the small round monitor. “Perfect timing, I was just about to call. If you’re good to go, we need you on your feet!”  
“I’m good, go ahead.”  
“Excellent,” Artie said breathlessly. “We have no idea how Claudia is doing in there but agent Jinks and myself are doing what we can on this end. We need you and Pete to find Gungnir for us.”  
“Goo— what?” Pete asked.  
“Gungnir,” Artie confirmed. “Look, I don’t have much time to explain so listen very carefully, both of you. In Norse mythology, Gungnir was Odin’s spear. In Warehouse history, it was used to create the very first link between the Warehouse and its caretaker.”  
“Of course,” Myka interrupted, “I read about this. The spear was one of the first artefacts in Warehouse 1 after it was discovered by Alexander the Great. Only — wait, the archives also mentioned it had been lost for centuries.”  
“Correct,” Artie resumed. “While it was found at the time of Warehouse 1, it was also lost shortly afterwards. Many agents have attempted to find it over the years, but so far all attempts have been unsuccessful which is why I’m putting my best agents on the case.”  
Pete chuckled. “Yeaaah, sure! Why wouldn’t we succeed where countless others have failed, right?!”  
“Shush,” Myka silenced him, “but yes, Pete kind of has a point. How are we going to find this thing?”  
“And what do we do with the Goog once we have it?” Pete added.  
“The last recorded location of Gungnir was inside Warehouse 1 of course, which was near Pella in Greece. I believe that’s where you should start. Once you have it, you must destroy it.”  
“Destroy it?!” Myka exclaimed in indignation. “Wait, why not just neutralise it?”  
“Because neutralisation would not be enough to sever the link between Paracelsus and the Warehouse. We’re talking about a centuries old connection with a direct impact over the functions of the Eldunari.”  
“Err, remind me what that is again.” Pete asked in shame.  
“Nevermind that,” Myka said. “Artie, we’ll call you back.”  
She slammed the Farnsworth shut. “Okay, let’s do this.” After a short pause, she flicked her eyes back and forth between Pete and the doorway, a snap of the head towards the exit rounding off her silent request.  
“Oh!” he blurted out. “Sorry, I’ll wait outside…” And shuffling his way across the room with jazz hands, “Greece, here we come!” 

* * *

## The ring

The sensation was eery, disconnected. _Trust Ms Bering to be able to build such a lush dream._ Gazing at the streets and the tumult of cars and people, H.G. Wells couldn’t quite make out exactly what was the cause of the detachment. It was as if every single wall or pavement would vanish at her touch, although they indeed remained whole. Hers felt like the one and only solid body in a place devoid of all substance, the ring her sole link back to reality.  
 _The ring._ The one object she had brought with her in Myka’s subconscious was cradled in the palm of her hand. But where to begin?  
She studied the artefact intently. Remembering her friend’s remark about an engraving, she scrutinised every nook and cranny of the stone’s uneven surface. It was a dull gem, she thought, black as coal. The gold band was eroded and archaic but she noticed the engraving on the inside of the stone setting. _A bird._ Examining the lines carefully, she revised her initial impression: _not any bird, an eagle_.  
She pocketed the ring once more and stood there pensively. Where to start without any help from the current Warehouse team. Even in the dream, she was undercover. An anomaly. And it had to stay this way if she was to avoid affecting too much of Myka’s reality. There were too many unknowns, so she must find a way to save her friend without interfering until it was absolutely necessary.  
Turning to face the traffic, Helena hailed a cab and hopped in.  
“Take me to the nearest airport,” she said. 

* * *

## Pella

Myka thanked the cab driver as she shut the car door. The heat was such that she felt foolish for wearing the white cotton shirt and dark trousers she was always so fond off.  
“Well, here we are! Pella, in all its glory!” Pete said taking in his surroundings, a long stretch of barren land dotted with tents and various vehicles a short distance from the dirt road.  
“Yeah,” replied Myka, “doesn’t give us much to work with but we’ve seen worse, right? Come on.” She motioned him forward, and sand and gravel crunched under foot as they marched towards the archeological site.  
A few dusty figures nonchalantly emerged from unevenly shaped holes in the ground, carrying a miscellany of tools such as spades, brushes and cameras. As they edged closer to the first trench, a man in khaki shorts and polo shirt approached them.  
“Eh,” he hailed, following up with foreign words and body language that all conveyed the expected meaning: no entry.  
Pete was quickest to draw his badge out of his pocket and retort, “Sorry pal, I don’t speak Greek. United States Secret service. I’m agent Lattimer and this is my partner, agent Bering. Who’s in charge here?”  
“Oh sorry,” the man said in perfect English, and pointing a grimy finger at one of the trailers, “over there, sir. The photography lab. Ask for Professor Necker.”  
“Thank you,” Myka replied and walked on.  
“ _The photography lab_ ,” Pete mimed and eyed his partner with a facetious grin. “Beats _the old tent_ I guess,” he winked.  
As they advanced through the site, they came across a succession of long trenches that revealed an array of ancient walls and mosaics one would never have imagined possible in this desolate area. Myka marvelled at the richness of it all.  
“This is incredible Pete,” she said. “To think the very first Warehouse could be just beneath our feet.”  
“Yeah. But if these guys can’t find it, we ain’t got a hope in Tartarus.”  
Myka tilted her head to examine Pete’s expression. “I’m impressed but that’s a little negative, coming from you.”  
“Sorry,” he replied wrinkling his nose, “I think I need to eat something, but the Tartarus thing was good, right?”  
“Sure was.” She shook her head with a faint smile. 

They reached the trailer and Myka knocked on the open door, peeking inside.  
“Professor Necker?” she asked.  
A tall, silver-haired figure came out of the shadows and stood above them in the doorway.  
“Yes, and you are?” he said.  
“Agent Bering,” Myka added extending her hand, her badge flashing in the other. “This is agent Lattimer. We wondered if you’d be willing to answer a few questions for us.”  
“I can certainly listen to your questions. Whether I’ll be able to answer them is another matter,” the tawny man replied while adjusting his glasses.  
“Of course,” Myka replied tentatively. “Could you tell us about the site? You know, what you have found so far.”  
“Well, we are in the process of excavating a rather important part of the old town right over there,” he pointed towards a large trench several feet away. “We believe it might have been a gathering area of sorts such as the town square and our findings seem to point to an execution site.”  
“Nice,” Pete added with a sneer.  
“Over there was the market with several small dwellings containing pottery, jewellery and weapons, and the wide expanse you see just behind that truck was of significant proportions for the time and most probably Alexander the Great’s main residence.”  
This piqued Myka’s interest.  
“Did you come across anything unusual there? Something that seemed out of place to you maybe?” she enquired.  
“No, I cannot say that we have but perhaps if you were a little more precise…”  
“Something you didn’t expect,” Pete pursued, “a weird door knob or a frying pan that doesn’t belong?”  
The professor chuckled lightly. “No, no, nothing of the sort, but perhaps you would like to speak to my crew. They’re currently working on this beautiful piece we discovered a couple of days ago. They started the cleaning process this morning so they may know something I do not.”  
“Let’s go,” Pete said, the three of them already marching towards the excavation.  
“When did you begin the works here?” Myka asked.  
“Let me think — the first archeological discovery in the area dates back to quite a few years but the site lay dormant until eighteen months ago, when the necessary funds were raised.”  
“I see, and who raised the funds?” she continued.  
“Ah yes, an interesting point of contention amongst all of us here,” he replied adjusting his glasses once more. “An anonymous benefactor offered their help.”  
“Anonymous huh?” Pete uttered.  
“Yes, quite the secretive type. The only viable information I have come across so far involves an umbrella company called Regents Incorporated. Extremely peculiar.”  
Both agents exchanged sideways glances.  
“Peculiar indeed,” Myka said as they reached the mysterious site.  
Professor Necker hailed one the archeologists and motioned him to come closer.  
“Nick, meet agents Bering and Lattimer. Would you show us to your newest find, please.”  
They followed Nick down and through a labyrinthine succession of empty roofless rooms to a smaller, partly covered chamber. There, two women were busy cautiously brushing off earth from a mosaic covering the entirety of the space. Where the dirt had been removed, the rich and vibrant colours formed a striking depiction of a valiant-looking young man on horseback wielding a spear directly pointed at what looked like a vanquished, earth-bound golden eagle.  
“Wow!” Pete exclaimed.  
“Yes, impressive, isn’t it?” the professor added. A young red-haired woman stood up to greet them. “Perhaps you would like to talk to Sarah, our Head of restoration.” Sarah extended a hand. “Agent Bering and Lattimer are interested in finding out more about our little marvel here.”  
“Certainly,” She acknowledged with a smile.  
“Now, if you don’t mind ladies and gent, I have matters I must attend to. You know where to find me if you need any further assistance.” The professor cocked his head in sign of farewell.  
“Thank you for your help professor,” Myka turned to face Sarah. “What do you think this represents?”  
“Well, we have a pretty simple but solid idea. It seems to be a depiction of Alexander the Great defeating Darius III.”  
“Darius III?” Myka questioned.  
“Last king of the Persian Empire, symbolised by the shahbaz — a golden falcon.” She pointed towards the bird.  
Myka couldn’t help but chime in, eyes wide open with interest. “Of course! The battle was fought in Mesopotamia and was one of Alexander’s greatest conquests.”  
“Correct,” Sarah smiled in agreement, “it was also one of his favourites as he lived there for some time and died there. It’s a truly beautiful work of art but I think we’ve only scratched the surface, if you excuse the pun.”  
“There’s more?” Pete asked, eyebrow raised.  
“So it would seem.” Sarah carefully walked over to the part of the mosaic where the spear pointed. “You see the tile used to make up the spearhead? It is the only tile of that particular size and shape on the piece — much bigger than the others. We haven’t yet cleaned it completely but we think there may well be some kind of inscriptions there.” She kneeled next to the tile and slowly traced her finger over the faint markings. “See? Right there. And we were just in the process of unveiling the last words engraved on the stone you are both standing on.”  
Looking down, Pete and Myka awkwardly shuffled their feet away from the small symbols they had failed to notice.  
“Whoops,” Pete said, “sorry about that.”  
“It’s ok,” she replied, amused, “I would’ve mentioned it earlier if it’d been a big deal but it’s a pretty solid stone, you know.”  
“What does it say?” Pete asked.  
“It’s cuneiform. I’m no specialist but my colleague gave me a rough translation. ‘That which comes from God shall return to God.’ And the attribution below reads ‘Alexander the Great to Pytheas’.”  
“So, these were words spoken by Alexander to Pytheas, who was… ?” Myka asked expectantly.  
“Pytheas was a Greek explorer, controversially credited with the discovery of the British Isles and the arctic. No direct affiliation to Alexander the Great though, up until today.”  
“I can see why you think this is significant now,” Pete said.  
Sarah nodded. “Yes, the kind of thing people like me come across once in a lifetime.”  
Myka shifted and looked at the spearhead once more. “What about this? Any idea what sort of inscription you will find there?”  
“This one’s a no-brainer really. Alexander’s spear, Gungnir, was as famous as his horse, Bucephalus. Gungnir was said to have once belonged to the Norse God Odin, so I’m expecting to find some lovely Norse runes engraved on there. Not that they will be any further help since runes pretty much remain a mystery to us all.”  
“Amazing,” Myka added. “Would you excuse us for a minute?”  
They both stepped out of the chamber into another room a few paces away where she motioned Pete to come closer and said in muted tones, “Do you think the spear could be just beneath our feet?”  
“Nah, I think these guys would have found it Mykes.”  
“Hmm…” She pulled out and opened her Farnsworth which quickly flicked to life to reveal Artie’s worried face. He listened patiently while Myka described the mosaic and its interesting details.  
“Pytheas, you say?” Artie interrupted, “How interesting. This puts a new spin on an old tale. You see, it’s always been assumed that the spear was either buried with Warehouse 1 or with Alexander himself, hence the difficulty in finding it since even the most seasoned archeologists have so far been unable to locate his tomb.”  
“Just what we needed, another Holy Grail,” Pete said.  
“Yes, quite,” Artie agreed. “However, the inscription below the mosaic suggests Alexander would never have deliberately kept the spear with him for eternity.”  
Myka felt a surge of excitement rise in her as Artie’s words flicked the light of understanding on in her mind. “Of course,” she said, “‘That which comes from God shall return to God’. He would have wanted to return the spear to Odin!”  
“Precisely,” Artie added, “and to do so, he enlisted the services of none other than—”  
“The guy who discovered the arctic,” Pete chimed in.  
“Pytheas,” Myka concluded.  
It all made perfect sense. Pete and Myka looked at each other with glee but quickly turned their gaze back to Artie’s small face on the screen. What did this mean for them? Where to go next?  
“I know, I know,” Artie said, “it certainly does not make things easier for us. However, there is hope—“  
“Hang on,” Pete interrupted again, “isn’t there an artefact with that guy’s name on it in the Warehouse?”  
“If you’d let me finish, yes, that would have been my next point. Pytheas’ Gnomon, the projecting piece of a sundial. It allows the triangulation of an artefact’s place of birth.”  
“O-kay, and how does that help us?” Pete said.  
Myka looked at him with a twinge of impatience. “It helps us locate Gungnir’s place of birth.”  
“Correct,” Artie said, “and in doing so, its possible place of rest.”  
Pete whistled a slow nod of comprehension, paused and furrowed his brow. “So, warrior prince gives the spear to our explorer friend who locates the spear’s birthplace and returns it to its almighty owner. I get it.” Then snapping his fingers, “man, I’m good.”  
Myka suppressed an eye roll. “Yeah, but isn’t the gnomon in the Warehouse?”  
“Yes, it is but fortunately a record of every single triangulation is kept in the Warehouse database, which means I can look this up for you right now. Most of the earlier records do not have an artefact associated with them but I think we can safely assume this one would be amongst the first registered.” Artie typed away on his laptop.  
“Right, here we go. First record is in Marseilles, France, which is expected since Pytheas came from there, this must be the birth of the gnomon itself as an artefact.” Artie’s eyes shifted across the screen. “Tyrie, in Scotland is next, then a latitude and longitude which point to a location along the southern coast of Iceland.”  
“Both way too cold if you ask me,” Pete said, “but hey Mykes, I’m a gentleman so I’ll let you pick.”  
“Well, it could be either one but assuming Pytheas’ mission was to return the spear, that would be the first artefact on the list after the gnomon itself so I would go for Tyrie.” Myka turned to Artie for confirmation.  
“Yes, makes sense,” he agreed, “I’ll send you the coordinates. Call me back as soon as you find anything.” Artie disappeared from the screen in a flash of white light. 

* * *

## Warehouse 12

Helena knew she’d find it. It was an instinct, a sixth sense. Ever since she had set foot in Warehouse 12 for the first time, she and it had been unequivocally connected, so finding her way back had been easy.  
Everything was as she remembered. The smell of copper and dust, the patina of squeaky floor boards, the beautifully carved doors and their brass handles. It jolted her memory back over a century ago, when her life was full of wonder and bewilderment, and her daughter was alive.  
 _Christina… How I miss you, my darling._  
She reminisced about those happier times, of those endless games of chess she and her teacher would play, of the day she’d successfully fired her grappler for the first time or the amazing fulfilment she’d felt on placing her very first artefact on one of the endless shelves.  
Wandering through the long, empty aisles, she touched every wall, every ledge, enjoying the feeling of sacred dust accumulating on her fingertips.  
 _I should never have asked to be bronzed_ , she thought. _Why choose to carry the pain with me for so long?_  
She imagined how different things might have been if she had chosen death instead. No conspiracies, no Minoan Trident, no Emily Lake. She smiled. _Ah, but no number 13, no adventure, no Myka…_  
Life did have a way of fitting you in, but it occurred to Helena that she had refused to live her own life as it was meant to be and instead tried to slip into someone else’s.  
All this time pretending that staying away from the Warehouse was the best course of action, that hitching a ride on Nate and Adelaide’s existence made perfect sense, that she should forget who she really was. It all felt so — artificial.  
Regret enveloped her as she let her gaze drop to a yellowed piece of paper at her feet.  
She contemplated the document for a while, slowly realising she’d found what she had come for. The rampart of filing that made up the Warehouse 12 archives towered above her and Helena ran towards the cabinet bearing the letter ‘G’, blinking the remorse away.  
 _Mary of Guise, come on, it should be here somewhere…_ She flipped and flipped through countless files. Gandhi … Gershwin … Greco … Guillemin … Gumbel — and back to Guillemin. _No Guise. Why? It should definitely be here._  
Helena paused, disconcerted. She eyed the filing cabinets one by one, looking for an answer.  
She knew it would not be filed under ‘M’, the files had always been categorised by last name and this one most definitely began with ‘G’. Her fingers drummed lightly on the front of the open drawer as she bit her lip. _Wait_ , she reflected. _No, of course not, Mary of Guise was French. Her name was Marie De Guise. It began with D!_  
Slamming the open drawer shut, she flew over to the other end of the archive wall, towards the cabinet marked ‘D’ where, sandwiched between De Bruyn and De Haas, she quickly found the file with the title ‘De Guise, Marie - Toadstone Ring’ written in flawless calligraphic handwriting. With a sigh of relief, she pulled the document out and scattered its contents across the nearest desk.  
Peculiar, she thought, how informal the categorisation had become nowadays compared to this very orthodox system. Nevertheless, she was thankful for technology taking over the old filing for without it, she would never have had access to this one. Not to mention Myka’s incredible imagination — or was it? Brushing the doubt off, she chose to focus on the task at hand and began reading.

_De Guise, Marie — Toadstone Ring  
1558 _

_Properties: Unknown. Occasionally emits faint amber glow when worn. Possible healing capabilities._

_Description: Oval-shaped piece of volcanic rock set in yellow gold band._

_Place of discovery: Alcove behind the Royal Standard in the Queen’s outer chamber at Stirling Castle, Scotland._

_Notes: The alcove where this artefact was discovered contained two small plinths, one of which was vacant, suggesting a related artefact remains in circulation. The latter would, in theory, complete this ring and release its true properties._

It was thin information, to say the least, but H.G. had two solid leads: Stirling Castle and a second artefact.  
Scotland was a stone’s throw away to a seasoned traveller such as herself, and now she came to think of it, the flight to England had felt like a split second. She quickly glanced over the other documents and, seeing nothing else of interest, stuffed the main one in her pocket and set off for the exit. There, standing in the secret doorway, she paused to take one last look at the deserted Warehouse and offered it one last gentle smile. “Good bye, beautiful,” she said, “and thank you.” And the door to Warehouse 12 was once again closed. 

* * *

## Tyrie

Myka slowed the car down as they moved closer to the coordinates Artie had sent. It was almost a shame to finally arrive after all this time driving through such a breathtakingly green landscape, devoid of human spoliation, safe for the road and a few cottages.  
“That’s it,” Pete said, “just a little further along this road, and… Stop.”  
She brought the car to a halt and they both stepped out, slamming the rental’s red doors and walking towards an invisible goal, Pete all the while holding the GPS up to ensure they would find the correct spot. Their shoes squeaked on the dewy grass as they advanced.  
Finally, Pete stopped, looked around at the field, double checked the GPS and turned to face his partner. “Well, here we are,” he said.  
Myka remained silent for a second, tugging at her earlobe. “What, here?” she finally said. “This is it?”  
“‘fraid so,” Pete shrugged. “But look on the bright side, we’re both getting some fresh air.” He added with an uncertain smile.  
After a clueless moment spent circling on the spot, kicking motes and picking at greenery, they came to the inevitable conclusion that there was nothing of note around. Defeated, they both reported their attention on the closest and only point of interest, the church about half a mile east of their location.  
They made their way towards the graveyard, all the while taking note of the humble scale and plain shape of the building, its ageless gray stones and the moss creeping up its foundations. It was a small old church, but it was in very good condition.  
“Let’s take a look inside,” Myka said, slipping her hands in her pockets.  
Upon entering, she glanced around at the neatly plastered walls and unimpressive altar and couldn’t help but feel disappointed by the modernity. However, one unusual element immediately caught her eye.  
“Pete,” she said, “come check this out.”  
Pete, who was busy fiddling with a piece of metal sticking out of a bench, abandoned his distraction and joined her to stand in front of what could only be described as a framed, tattooed stone.  
“Wow!” he said backing away slowly, “I’m getting a mighty vibe here Mykes.”  
“Ok, good or bad vibe?” Myka asked.  
“Err — hard to say really. Good I think, but this baby’s definitely got a history.”  
They both stepped closer to the stone to examine it in detail. Myka started tracing the drawing with her fingers while Pete observed with a frown, rubbing his chin.  
In keeping with its surroundings, the frame was unremarkable. The stone, however, was of an altogether different ilk. About the size of a standard poster, its flat surface a light beige, it displayed an odd line drawing which appeared inked rather than carved, depicting an incomprehensible symbol made up of two rectangles above which was a square with two holes on each side, crossed by an inverted sideways Z shaped line with strange squiggles at each end, and a bird standing on top of it.  
“Can I help you?” said a voice echoing out of nowhere.  
Startled, Pete and Myka both turned around like two naughty children caught in the act.  
A young priest in sandals was making his way up the aisle, wearing a calm, reassuring smile.  
“No need to panic,” he added. “Good afternoon and welcome to Tyrie, I am father Brian.”  
Myka was first to regain her composure.  
“Father,” she said. “Sorry, we were just looking at the stone. I’m agent Bering and this is my partner agent Lattimer.”  
“Agents? My my, ’tis not often we are visited by agents in Tyrie. Can I be of assistance?”  
“Can you tell us anything about this?” Pete said pointing at the slab.  
Father Brian came closer and laid a careful hand on the stone. “This,” he said, “is a Pictish stone. A most precious object perhaps dating back as far as the VI century. Very little is known about these stones but they are thought to have served as gathering places for worshippers of Mithras, a Persian god. This particular stone was discovered a little to the west of this church in the original church’s grounds.”  
“To the west huh?” Pete said. “Would you say about half a mile down west?”  
“Yes, give or take a few feet,” said the priest.  
A subtle sideways glance from Myka told Pete they were both thinking along the same lines. This stone was directly related to those mysterious coordinates registered by the gnomon.  
The priest continued on, “We call it the raven stone, for obvious reasons but I’m afraid there is not much else I can tell you about it.”  
“Thank you,” Myka said, “this helps a lot.”  
“My pleasure. I’ll be in the cloister if you need further assistance.” Father Brian smiled once more and took his leave.  
Pete was first to flip open his Farnsworth and see Artie’s face grow from a tiny dot to a full picture on the circular screen.  
“Yes?” the boss said in his usual short-tempered tone.  
Pete pointed the device at the stone. “Lookey what we’ve found,” and proceeded to explain the discovery.  
“Well, this is quite a find,” Artie said, “however Pictish stones are largely misunderstood so it doesn’t give us much to work with. Let me think…” He rested his chin on his left hand, his index finger tapping his lips repeatedly. “Mithras…” He started typing on his laptop and reading out loud. “Mithras, Persian god, duhduhduh — spawned Mithraism, a religion practiced in the Roman empire, duhduhduh — complex system of initiation — met in underground temples called mithraea. Ah! Here we are. Did the priest mention anything about a temple?”  
“No,” Myka replied, “he just said the stone had been discovered in the old church’s grounds.”  
Artie stepped back from the laptop. “This was a gathering spot. It marked the location of the mithraeum. If those temples were hidden underground, there must have been some kind of mechanism to access them,” his voice now sharp with impatience. “Can you see anything in the design that may be a clue as to how you’d open the temple?”  
Myka squinted and bit her lip, her concentration palpable. She run her fingers through her hair and sighed. “I don’t know, Artie.”  
“Come on Mykes, you’re good with these things,” Pete encouraged her, his hand on her shoulder.  
“Ok ok,” she said massaging her temples. “A bird, on top of some contraption with two holes in it and some kind of turning mechanism. Perhaps if I put my hand on the bird to simulate its weight,” she laid a hand on the raven’s body, “and run my other hand over the mechanism,” tracing the Z shape with her index finger while Pete and Artie held their breath in anticipation.  
Nothing.  
“Try it the other way around.” Pete suggested.  
She traced the shape again, but this time from right to left, still nothing happened.  
“Wait,” Pete erupted, suddenly running towards the nearest lit candle which he picked up, careful not to blow it out, and brought back to Myka. “Try it with this,” he said handing her the fragile light.  
She let the flame lick the bottom of the drawing slowly.  
“No,” he objected, “put it on the bird.”  
She reached out to let the fire touch the inked wings, moving back and forth over the silhouette.  
“That’s it,” he added as they all watched anxiously, “Come on birdy, come to papa…”  
Within seconds, the black lines became ablaze with a bright amber glow, the design suddenly coming to life to let the bird spread its wings and the Z shape turn on its axis.  
Myka dropped the candle in surprise while Pete observed the stone with a wide grin.  
“Who’s your daddy?! Come on!”  
Artie cut in, exasperated. “Yes, yes, good work! Now get a move on!” His face disappeared from the Farnsworth.  
“How did you know?” Myka asked a very smug looking Pete.  
“Ah! I always knew reading Harry Potter would pay off somehow!” He put his hands on his hips. “This little birdie ain’t any birdie. It’s a phoenix!”  
Eyes wide open with amazement, Myka pursed her lips and said, “Now why didn’t I think of that?”  
Pete patted her on the shoulder and started towards the door. “Come on Hermione, let’s go find that temple!” 

* * *

## Stirling Castle

Myka’s subconscious seemed to make everything easier for Helena, for when she arrived at Stirling Castle, it was totally devoid of visitors. Only a handful of staff were present and she was free to roam the enormous chambers alone.  
Although she had previously visited Scotland, this was Helena’s fist time in Stirling but the beautiful simplicity of the construction felt familiar and reassuring. After a brief look at the visitor’s map, she quickly found the queen’s outer chamber where the ring had been discovered.  
A large representation of Mary of Guise’s royal standard stood proudly at the centre of the room: the coat of arms with its British Lion and French fleur de Lys, supported by a unicorn on the left and an eagle on the right.  
 _The eagle again._  
Helena looked around the room to ensure she was alone and proceeded to curl her fingers around the edges of the panel, gently feeling for a way to reveal the alcove she knew was hidden behind. Her hands moved steadily up each side, until her fingers caught on a small bump on the right. She paused to let her touch examine it more closely and decided to press it as one would a button. She heard the clicking sound of rusty springs being released and almost lost her balance as the heavy panel came off the wall and into her arms. She barely had time to settle it down on the stone floor before the sheer weight of it would throw her backwards in a fracas of embarrassment, but she regained her composure once her eyes settled on the secret now revealed. Behind the panel, a small alcove made from a single stone contained two narrow plinths, each no more than two inches tall. A unicorn was carved on the left plinth and again, an eagle on the right, while in front of both, a wooden plaque engraved in impeccable flourished manuscript spelt the words: “En ma fin est mon commencement”.  
Helena examined each corner, each detail, each speck of dust to ensure she wouldn’t miss an important clue, but the mysterious words were all she was left with.  
 _In my end lies my beginning_ , she translated to herself. She mulled over the cryptic phrase, wondering why and how it had come to be associated with the two women and the rings. She thought of its inherent meaning, a correlation between living and dying, and how death could bring about rebirth, perhaps in the form of a reincarnation. She pondered over the recurring engravings of the creatures but could not find an obvious link. The unicorn, symbol of Scotland, noble, mystical, fierce. The eagle, strong and brave but, to Helena’s knowledge, unrelated to either Scotland or France. She was at a loss and in dire need of help from one better acquainted with heraldry and the meaning of those words.  
Helena hastily retraced her steps back towards the main entrance where, after a brief exchange with the receptionist and an excruciating five minute wait on a very uncomfortable bench, a young and jovial tour guide appeared and extended her hand in welcome.  
“Ms Wells I presume?” she said.  
“You presume correctly,” Helena said with a beaming smile.  
“Anna Burnam. I hear you wish to learn more about the castle?” she sat next to Helena.  
“Not quite the castle itself but rather two of its occupants. I’m very interested in the symbolism surrounding Mary Stuart and her mother, Mary of Guise. Could you tell me what the unicorn and the eagle stand for?”  
“Certainly. You mean the phoenix?” Anna asked. A seldom seen bemused expression emerged on H.G.’s face, quickly replaced by a gasp of sudden understanding.  
“The phoenix — of course,” she said with a slight tilt of her head.  
“Yes,” Anna went on, “Mary of Guise was very fond of it as a symbol of Lorraine, her birthplace. If you look closely at her royal standard, you will see a Lorraine cross around the bird’s neck. It is often associated with strength, bravery and the power to be reborn, as I am sure you already know. The unicorn is simply the symbol of Scotland and in using both creatures as supporters for her coats of arms, she proudly displayed the bond that was created between Scotland and France with her union to King James V.”  
“Do you know anything about a saying or phrase associated with either or both of them?” Helena asked.  
“You mean ‘En ma fin est mon commencement’?”  
Helena nodded.  
“It was a motto of sorts for Mary Stuart. She had it embroidered in several places, notably on her canopy of state while being imprisoned in Fotheringay Castle before her execution. Mary was a spiritual person and although many conclusions can be drawn from this phrase, I simply believe that she was fond of the phoenix and took its symbolism literally and for herself in order to create an escape for her terrible destiny.”  
“I see,” Helena said. “Has the phrase appeared anywhere else?”  
“Mostly on embroidered items,” Anna said, “some of which were even sold at auction. One is still displayed in Sheffield Castle I believe, and most recently, the Mary Stuart Society laid a commemorative plaque in Dumbarton Castle bearing those very words.”  
“Why there?” asked Helena.  
“As a child, Mary Stuart was kept safe in Dumbarton for several months before being exiled to France for her protection due to the tensions between Henry VIII and Scotland. The society requested the plaque be laid to commemorate her departure.”  
“A rather remarkable request for such a small event, don’t you think?”  
“Perhaps,” Anna admitted with a slight curve of her lips, “but the society would beg to differ. You see, many believe that this location was extremely significant. Six year-old Mary was going to be separated from her mother for an extended period of time and some say that very special events took place on the eve of her departure. The legend speaks of rather extraordinary weather conditions that day and that while mother and daughter were saying their goodbyes in the garden, Dumbarton rock, the mountain the castle sits atop, shook for a brief instant. When the two came back to the castle, they were described as glowing with an internal fire, as if they had been touched by an angel.”  
“Fascinating,” Helena said.  
“And also highly improbable,” Anna added, “but you know how legends take on a life of their own. Who knows what truly happened…”  
“Indeed,” Helena agreed. She paused to reflect, took a breath and added, “This legend, does it mention a ring at any point?”  
The guide tilted her head inquisitively. “It seems you do know quite a bit about this after all,” she said, “As a matter of fact, it does, yes. It is said that Mary of Guise had two identical rings made from the volcanic rock of Dumbarton before her daughter left; toadstone rings. They were believed to ward off disease and poison, you see, so Mary gave one ring to her daughter and kept one for herself. But the interesting part comes again with the mysterious amber glow the rings are said to have emitted after they had both returned from the garden. Of course none of this has ever been confirmed and remains pure conjecture for no such rings have ever been found.”  
“A great shame it would seem,” Helena added with a slight blush. “Thank you so much for your help.” She shook the guide’s hand. “I do believe a visit to Dumbarton Castle is now in order.”  
“You’re most welcome,” Anna replied, “Enjoy Dumbarton. It is magnificent and full of mysteries. You’ll feel right at home.” And with one last smile, Anna Burnam took her leave. 

* * *

## The Mithraeum

Retracing their steps back east, Pete and Myka could not discern any changes in the landscape that would indicate the presence of an underground temple, the now misty horizon still as flat as it had been less than an hour ago. Pete, once again holding his GPS at eye-level, advanced carefully, a shivering Myka at his heels.  
“Hurry up Pete, I’m freezing out here,” she said rubbing her hands together.  
“Yeah,” he said, “amazing how cold it’s got all of a sudden.” He stopped a few feet further. “Start looking Mykes.” But just as he’d uttered those words, Myka yelped a tiny cry when she was suddenly swallowed below ground, disappearing under a sheet of grass. Pete, in a flash of bravery, threw himself towards the invisible hole and vanished head first just as swiftly.  
“Ouch!” he exclaimed as he landed on cold stone.  
“Ouch yourself, that was my leg!” Myka said freeing her thigh from under Pete’s chest.  
“Oh sorry miss perfect, I was kinda trying to help you there.”  
“Yeah?” she asked. “Well now we’re both stuck down here so start thinking about how we’re gonna get out.”  
Pete scrambled up to his feet while Myka was still rubbing her thigh, more in a huff than in pain. He shook his trousers free from dust, she finally took her attention away from her leg, and they both stared at their surroundings, stunned into silence.  
The temple was a circular dome carved in the rock itself as one solid block about thirty feet across. The entirety of the walls were covered in various symbols, ranging from simple line drawings reminiscent of the Pictish stone to Egyptian hieroglyphs, persian, latin and old English. On the ground, several norse runes were etched and glowed in seemingly random patterns.  
“Holy Pictish phoenix,” Pete said. “What the heck is this place?”  
“I don’t know but it feels — alive,” Myka replied. She gladly accepted her partner’s hand to help herself up.  
“I’m getting the same vibe I got in the church but ten times stronger,” Pete said. “It’s like the room wants to protect us, like we’re in a safety bubble.”  
Myka limped her way across the chamber to reach the part of the wall she may be able to decipher. As she approached it, she felt the pain in her leg ease up and fade altogether. She was no expert by any means but latin was the oldest language there that she could understand and with the Farnworth somehow rendered useless by the temple, Artie’s help was not an option.  
She set out to translate each word, laboriously stringing them together to form coherent english sentences which made little sense at first. 

_During the years of the ninth, the stone of the keeper was stolen from the temple. Without the stone, the keeper could no longer live again and the staff of transfer could no longer manifest. Defying the ancients, the keeper of the ninth searched for forever life. His search cost much but his life was spared for as keeper still, his being must be preserved in bronze until his duties truly belong to the next one._

“Oh my god, Pete!” Myka called out. “This is incredible. You have to come and read this!”  
“Err… yeah,” he said. “I’ve sorta found something incredible myself.”  
Pete was standing next to a small cylindrical altar in the centre of the room, his left hand resting near the two holes carved on the top. One was wider than the other and elongated, like it had been created by driving a blade in the stone. The other was more oblong in shape and had a small object at its centre.  
He took a purple rubber glove out of his pocket and removed the object from the slot, careful to hold the glove as a barrier between his skin and the item, then walked over to the latin wall to show Myka his discovery.  
She couldn’t help but let out a gasp, taking a small step back when she laid eyes on the ring, the same ring H.G. Wells had showed them at the hospital.  
“That’s insane!” she blurted out. “How is this possible?”  
“It can’t be the same ring, Mykes” Pete said. “Maybe it’s just a replica.”  
“No, no, look!” she objected. “The gold band, the design, the colour of the stone, its shape, it’s the same. Helena must have arrived here before we did.” She called out, “Helena?!” 

* * *

## Dumbarton

Dumbarton Castle turned out to be not at all what Helena had expected. It was unlike any other castle she had seen before. Perched on top of a cliff and of extremely humble proportions, it felt more like a fortified manor, but who was she to contradict centuries of history that dictated otherwise.  
Again wondering how she had managed to get here so fast, she climbed the steps up to the main entrance, enjoying the sharp breeze and the sea air filling her lungs, the grass around her so green it was almost fluorescent.  
She stopped in front of the large gates, all of a sudden submerged with worry. Where to start? The castle was indeed small but for a lone woman, searching the entire keep would be a daunting task, however there was no time to waste. Talking to the tour guide had proved helpful in Stirling, perhaps the same would hold true in Dumbarton.  
It wasn’t long before she stumbled upon the gardener, kneeling in a flowerbed a little off the beaten track.  
“Excuse me, sir?” she enquired. “Is there a tour guide available?”  
The old man stood up slowly, his wooden pipe hanging from the corner of his grey moustache and beard, and his overalls stained with damp soil. He rubbed his hands against his legs in an effort to clean them and cast a crooked eye upon Helena.  
“Not today lassie,” he said in a thick Scottish accent. “But I know more about this place than all of them guides combined! Ask me anything.” He threw his trowel in the earth.  
“Oh, thank you,” she replied shuffling back a step. “I was interested in finding out more about Mary Stuart’s stay here as a child and the myth surrounding it.”  
“Myth huh?” he sneered. “This is no myth lady. It is truth.”  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you—“  
He let out a loud thunderous laugh. “Why don’t you come inside in the warmth, it’s getting chilly out here for a wee lass.”  
Not knowing whether to be offended herself, she followed the old man down to his cottage. 

The smell of hot tea reached Helena’s nostrils and she suddenly realised just how cold she had been outside.  
The hearth, now ablaze, had warmed up the small stone room in no time and the gardener had lit an old oil lamp that gave a cozy glow. As he approached the worn wooden table with two mugs full of fragrant tea, Helena felt as if she had once again stepped aboard her time machine.  
“Thank you,” she said as he firmly set the mug down in front of her.  
“Drink,” he replied. “You’ll be freezing to death before you know it in this get up.”  
Helena couldn’t help the little corner smile from her lips. How long had it been since anyone had spoken to her in that manner? She found it somewhat endearing.  
“So,” the old man started, “seems you need an education. Few people come here wanting to know more about this place. Tourists!” He sipped from his mug with a loud slurp. “Drink!”  
Helena blew on the steaming hot tea and sipped slowly. She felt a little intimidated by the old man as she watched him from behind the porcelain cup.  
“The Dumbarton principle.” He picked up an apple from the bowl at the centre of the table and bit into it, juice dripping into his beard. “Haven’t heard of it, have you? I must be the last ruddy man to know about it nowadays.” He leaned forward from his chair to give the fire a poke while Helena sat there expectantly.  
“Ha!” he bellowed, a few wet bits of fruit flying from his mouth. “I see I’ve piqued your interest. Good!” Helena’s eyes sparkled with the teased flames’ reflections.  
“Yes,” he went on. “You’re no ordinary lass, are you? The rock knows.”  
She set her mug down. “The rock?” she asked.  
“Aye, Dumbarton rock,” he said. “It sees inside you, what burns in you.”  
“I don’t understand,” she said.  
“Then stop asking questions and let me explain,” he replied washing down the last of the apple with another gulp of tea. “Two halves don’t a whole make.” He watched Helena intently.  
“I’m sorry?” she said, her hair swaying slightly over her shoulder as she tilted her head.  
“That’s the principle,” he said. “It takes more than two halves to make a whole. In other words, it takes something truly special for a true unity to exist between two things, or two people as it may be. You know, Romeo and Juliette, Tristan and Iseult, Cleopatra and Mark Antony, Lancelot and Guinevere.”  
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said with a tinge of impatience. “But these people and their stories have all been romanticised. Most are purely fictional. What does their love have to do with Dumbarton?”  
“Everything!” he replied, his lip quivering a little. “It has everything to do with it. Oh, they have been romanticised, as you say, yes. But they wouldn’t have been at all without the rock. And you wanna think again about them being fictional.” He stood to fetch a lighter from the mantel, lit his pipe and took a long puff as he sat once more.  
“Love — is more than most people think. Few truly experience it. Very few. It consumes you from the inside like molten lava and it bonds you to the other person when it is reciprocal.” He paused to take another puff. “The rock sees it. It recognises it. Sanctifies it. Once you are touched by the Dumbarton principle, you are truly blessed.”  
Helena was having difficulty reconciling the idea with the facts. She looked down at the stained surface of the table, her eyes wandering across the cracks and dents in the wood. So Mary Stuart and her mother must have experienced the Dumbarton principle. Their love was strong enough. That must have been what caused the rings to become artefacts.  
She hesitated for an instant, wondering whether she could trust the old man with her secret, but seeing him staring in the distance with the firelight dancing in his eyes, she knew that instant he was no ordinary gardener.  
Slowly reaching for the ring inside her jacket pocket, she asked, “Who are you, really?”  
A smile slowly formed as he removed his pipe and turned to face Helena, his pupils now brighter than ever.  
“Who’s asking?” he replied, grinning still.  
“Helena George Wells,” She answered looking him squarely in the eyes. “Mother, author, inventor, Warehouse 13 agent. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”  
“Aye,” he said. “I knew.” He leaned towards her. His elbow on the table and his accent now gone he added: “Pleased to meet you Ms Wells. My name is Merlin Ambrosius. Advisor, sagehood, wizard and gardener.” He put his pipe at the corner of his mouth once again, where it belonged. Small puffs of smoke rose up to add to the existing haze.  
Helena’s brow knotted as she attempted to process the information. There was an answer she had not expected.  
“Merlin,” she said. “King Arthur’s Merlin?”  
“That is how you would know him, yes.” he replied staring at the flames. “But he was no king, just — my other.”  
“Your other what?” she asked.  
“My half.”  
She looked at him incredulously. “You and Arthur?”  
He gave her a sideways glance. “Not like that my dear,” he said. “But, yes. Arthur and I were, I believe, the first blessed. What existed between us was indescribable. So strong. More tea, or — an apple, perhaps?”  
“Erm… No, thank you,” she replied looking dubiously at the fruit in front of her. “How… How did you know who I was?”  
“Long story, but first, why don’t you show me what it is that you came here for, huh?” he said.  
Remembering the object clenched in her right hand, Helena dropped her gaze to it. She slowly extracted it from her pocket, set it between the two of them on the table, and without hesitation, opened the small box to reveal the precious artefact. Merlin hummed in acknowledgement as he studied the ring.  
“That one we have had for a long time.” He said looking up at Helena who was increasingly puzzled by the old man’s cryptic answers.  
“We? What do you mean?” she asked, returning the ring to the safety of her pocket.  
“This one has been in the Warehouse for some time. You seek its sister.”  
“Yes,” she said now gasping for the information hanging from the wizard’s lips. “Do you have it?”  
Merlin laughed heartily for what seemed like an eternity to Helena, then settled his gaze upon her and said: “Your other has it, my dear.”  
Helena’s resolve was beginning to break down as she felt each incomprehensible word challenge her intelligence like so many rain drops on a forest fire.  
“My… My other?” she stuttered. “Who? Please, tell me? Who has it? I must save her.”  
“She does,” he said. “She’s holding it right now. She’s incredibly spirited you know. One of the best there have been for centuries.”  
“Myka?” she asked, bewildered.  
“Yes,” he drawled. “I never thought anyone would find the Haven again after that idiot lost the stone, but there she is, your fellow agent, your other.”  
He raised an eyebrow as he realised his pipe had now gone out and set about filling it and lighting it again.  
“Let me settle your racing thoughts now,” he said. “I’ll explain everything.” 

* * *

## The diary

“Stop!” Pete said, attempting to calm Myka down. “Stop it, Myka. She’s not here.” He grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him.  
“It must be a replica, Mykes. Look, we’ll just carry on deciphering those damn walls, or take photos of them or something and then we’ll go outside and call her.” He studied her face with concern and added: “Remember what we came here for, ok?”  
Myka was lost. As she clutched the ring firmly in her hand, she couldn’t understand why she was feeling such distress at the thought of Helena not responding. It was as if the artefact had opened a door to let her catch a glimpse of H.G. Wells and closed it suddenly.  
She had to compose herself, think of the task at hand. Find the spear. For now that was all she should concentrate on.  
“Ok.” Pete let his hands slide down her arms, squeezed a little and let go. “Come on. You gotta translate this thing.”  
“Yeah,” she said sharply, eyes darting in too many directions. “Translate… Right, let’s do this.” She looked at the ring in the palm of her hand once more, held it tightly and walked towards the wall she’d begun reading earlier. 

Deciphering the rest of the Latin was the biggest challenge and she found it hard to make sense of the sentences she could put together. The old English, in contrast, was much easier.  
Pete, staring at her for the best part of an hour, finally demonstrated that he could have the patience of a saint.  
Sat on the cold stone floor, Myka reached the final full stop and remained silent. She opened her hand to look at the ring and let a tear escape and drop silently onto it.  
“Mykes?” Pete whispered.  
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is a lot to take in and I’m not sure where to start.” She promptly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and turned to face him.  
“This place is a diary, Pete. A diary of the Warehouse. Everything that has happened to it since the very beginning I suspect. The latin relates events occurring from the time of Warehouse 9.” She stood up, wiped her trousers down with a swift hand movement and went towards the corresponding wall.  
“Here,” she ran her hand along the top of it, “it starts with the loss of the caretaker’s stone. This is what drove Paracelsus to seek immortality, Pete. The stone was essential to keeping the caretaker bonded to the Warehouse, but it was taken from him. Without it, he would not be able to survive a Warehouse transition or pass his duties onto the next caretaker.”  
“But, there have been many caretakers since Paracelsus.” Pete questioned.  
“Yes, but only because he was bronzed.” She explained. “You see, he was not only bronzed because of his deeds, he was bronzed because he had to be. He never stopped being the caretaker. All the others since have been ersatz.”  
“Er— what?” Pete said.  
“Ersatz. Poor substitutes.”  
“Whoa, Mykes, I don’t think Mrs F would like—”  
“I know, I know but it is what it is.” She observed the little symbols glowing on the floor for an instant and went on. “The stone, along with the spear were the true essential artefacts needed to appoint a caretaker and neither can manifest without the other. No stone, no spear and vice versa.”  
“I see,” Pete said still none the wiser. “So we need the stone now?”  
“Well, we kind of have it,” she replied bringing her ring bearing hand up. “Or at least, part of it.”  
“Part of it? Mykes, the suspense is killing me here. Please put me out of my misery.”  
“Helena has the other part.” She swallowed hard to repress the tears that threatened to resurface and took the ring between her fingers to bring the engraving inside to Pete’s attention.  
“You see,” she added, the words catching in her throat a little. “I didn’t notice it at first, but it’s a unicorn. Helena’s was a phoenix.”  
“A phoenix? Just like the Pictish stone? Mykes, how do you—“  
“I examined it, remember? In the hospital? You made a joke about the way I referred to my grand-mother.” She quirked an eyebrow. At least that had kept the welling up at bay.  
“Ah yeah, sorry about that…” Pete muttered, awkwardly massaging his neck.  
“The stones in both rings form the caretaker stone. Unfortunately, Mary of Guise broke it into two parts and made rings out of it.”  
“Ok, that was a bad idea, right? Why would she do that?” He scratched his forehead a little.  
“The Dumbarton principle,” Myka said and there was that surge of emotion again.  
Pete just stared at her, arms crossed, oblivious to the slight flutter on her face.  
She cleared her throat and soldiered on.  
“Two halves do not a whole make. That’s the principle. It means it takes a special bond between two people to unite them utterly. The stone is a piece of volcanic rock from Dumbarton, here in Scotland. When that bond exists and is strong enough, the stone sanctifies it and blesses both beings with health and powers of resurrection.”  
“Okay,” Pete said. “This is starting to make more sense but why break it in two?”  
“Well, when Mary of Guise came across it, nobody knows how, she was in Dumbarton with her daughter Mary, Queen of Scots. Their bond was strong enough and they received the blessing, but she went a step too far by thinking that splitting the stone would keep protecting both of them when they had to be separated. She basically broke the artefact, Pete. The stone became worthless.”  
“That’s sad, man,” he said shaking his head. “Hang on. That means we’ll never get the spear back.”  
“Well, it complicates matters, yes.” She turned towards the wall again, unsure whether she would be able to keep the tears at bay much longer.“It means we need to make the stone whole again.”  
“Oh man…” He whined, discomfited. “How?”  
Myka pinched the bridge of her nose as, this time, there was no escaping the pool that came rushing to her eyes. She let out an uncontrollable sob when Pete wrapped her in his arms a second later.  
“Hey hey,” he whispered. “What’s with the tears? We’ll figure it out…“  
Myka wiped her nose with her knuckles and let her eyes slowly lift upwards to meet his.  
“No. It’s not that— I… She’s so incredible, Pete.”  
He shook his head, briefly raising his hands up in question.  
“Helena…” Myka explained. “She’s saving me. Again.”  
A tiny laughter escaped her lips as she threw her arms around Pete’s neck and let her tangled feelings hang in the air like so many questions. She closed her eyes, inhaled her partner’s reassuring presence deeply, and slowly opened them up again to land on the base of the plinth that stood in the centre of the room.  
“Pete…” she said still clinging to him.  
“Yes…”  
“I think I know who’s been writing all this stuff.”  
He gently let go of her and swivelled around to follow her line of sight fixated on two words: 

_Myrddin Emrys_

* * *

## Merlin

“You cannot possibly be serious!” Helena erupted. “But, it’s a gross anachronism. Arthurian legend places you around the V century BC. It’s simply impossible!”  
Helena was beside herself and she had taken to pacing back and forth in front of the hearth, arms waving frantically around as she spoke.  
“Now, my dear Ms Wells,” said the wizard. “You, of all people, should know that time is a fickle friend. I am sorry to have to skew your notion of it further but Arthur and myself were indeed around long before the century where legend places us.”  
“But if what you’re saying is true, then how could you do this? How could you let all those people be killed by this Paracelsus when you could have done something all along?! What about Leena? And Artie? He nearly lost his mind for you?!” She stopped to face him. “How could you leave Claudia in there with him, knowing full well that she doesn’t stand a chance?!”  
The old man had remained in his chair all the while, staring at the fire.  
Now that Helena had heard his account, he had to let her shock and anger pass. She was, after all, the very first person he had told and this was not the same as keeping records on the walls of a temple. Temples didn’t react or fight back but he had waited for this day for so long, he’d almost forgotten how very inadequate the truth made him seem. 

It was time before time, as far as history books were concerned. A few Greek myths, a few Celtic ones but very little in the way of real history. Yet, that was where Merlin’s story truly began.  
At first he had seen Dumbarton as a simple anomaly. This sort of power could only come from living beings, and Arthur and he had obviously imparted this mountain with its strange properties. But soon after Arthur’s death, Merlin realised that Dumbarton was only the beginning, that Morgan Le Fay had set something in motion by somehow neutralising the rock’s untold spell and that, with the fight that had ensued, they had both unleashed such power into the world that people everywhere, good or bad, now also had the ability to unwillingly create what would later be called artefacts.  
Determined to correct his mistake, he set about gathering those objects to guard them from people and protect people from them. It was a trivial task at first for few existed, but as time went by and he remained, Merlin understood his body alone would soon be unable to contain them all. So armed with Odin’s spear and the fragment of Dumbarton rock Arthur had preserved from the witch, he travelled inland and created his Haven, a small temple below ground that he entrusted to the reliable and dutiful Celtic people.  
As the years went by and the collection grew, Merlin kept a diary of the Haven’s history on its very walls. How the Celts and all those who came after slowly grew unable to care in his place; how he himself grew tired of searching alone; how he found a kindred spirit in Alexander the Great who reminded him so much of Arthur.  
As time had eroded the Haven that was bursting at the seams, so had the loss of his friend consumed Merlin with a fire he now needed to share. And thus, the first Warehouse came to be, an extension of Merlin himself, bonded to Alexander by the stone, himself appointed by the spear.  
The rest was history. 

“You seem to forget one tiny detail, Ms Wells,” the wizard slowly drawled, his voice coarse with acrid smoke.  
Helena stopped her frantic pacing to plant her fists on the table, her brow still knitted with incomprehension and anger.  
“And what detail would that be, pray tell.”  
“The stone — had been broken.”  
She threw her arms up.  
“But you knew where the pieces were all along,” she said. “You could have reunited them in no time, freed Paracelsus and appointed a new caretaker!”  
“Ms Wells, you should know better…” he lifted his gaze to her, bushy eyebrows raised.  
Helena hesitated for a moment. Her mouth opened and closed as if it wished to form words that would never come.  
Merlin went on. “Indeed, I knew one of the pieces had returned to the Haven of its own accord after Mary’s personal effects were burnt following her execution, and of course I felt the other be placed on the Warehouse’s shelves not long after but simply putting a broken artefact back together does not automatically restore its properties. Only the same forces that created it in the first instance are capable of that.”  
“But— the file in Warehouse 12 said…”  
Merlin simply shook his head in denial.  
Helena’s entire body slumped as she fell into the rickety chair facing the bearded man.  
“So that’s it,” she said. “It was all for nothing. The rings are useless. The dream will end and it will all have been for nothing… I, the great H.G. Wells, couldn’t save her.”  
The void that took over Helena then was immense. She couldn’t save her very own daughter, what could have possibly made her believe that she could save Myka. The attempt had been futile from the start. It was that same feeling all over again, the one that sunk deep into the pit of her stomach and left her powerless. Devoured. Empty.  
A strong firm hand settled gently on her shoulder as a wave of smoke caressed her cheek.  
“My dear…” came the throaty voice of the wizard. “But you _are_ saving her.” 

* * *

## Whole

It had only been a matter of seconds. Merlin had taken her hand between in his own callous fingers and they had both been yanked out of the cottage by an invisible pull, swallowed into nothingness and spat back out some place entirely different.  
The suddenness of the experience had jerked Helena out of her confusion at the wizard’s last words, leaving her wide-eyed and reaching out for a shoulder to steady herself on as they materialised in the Haven.  
Still blinded by the light that had come with the old man and his passenger, Pete and Myka reluctantly lowered the arms they’d been using as shields against the overwhelming brightness, blinking away the glare and the perplexity in equal measure.  
There they were, three dumbfounded secret agents and a wizard in an underground temple, staring. But only for the briefest moment, for when Myka’s eyes met Helena’s, stupor instantly morphed into awareness. Awareness of the moment, of the truth yet untold, of each other. The feeling that crept inside them what that of a deep and acute understanding. With one look, they had both fallen in tune.  
Pete was, of course, first to break the silence and rush over to the dark-eyed woman to wrap her in one of his famous bear hugs, not withstanding the urge to shout an enthusiastic “H.G.!!!” along the way.  
Reluctantly breaking eye contact with her wavy-haired reflection, Helena gave in to Pete’s embrace with sunny laughter as all trace of her earlier anguish washed away with each passing moment. 

“Well, there’s a welcome I don’t receive every day!” she exclaimed, reaching up on tipped toes to take the burly man’s face in her hands and plant a firm kiss on his forehead.  
“Hey,” he added, somewhat startled by the woman’s atypical behaviour. “You’d get those more often if you showed up more often!” The comment received an almighty eye-roll which was promptly brushed off with a “Man, are we glad to see you! Right Mykes?!”  
Myka, still rooted to the spot, simply smiled and blinked softly in acknowledgement as she watched the unexpected woman slowly carve a path towards her.  
With each step, the link between them intensified, and when Helena finally cupped Myka’s cheek with her hand in slow motion, steadily tracing her fingers towards the back of the woman’s neck to pull her gently into a warm embrace, there was no doubt in their minds as to what needed to be done. 

Merlin watched the scene with endearment, although he couldn’t help but curse out loud as he realised he’d left his beloved pipe back at the cottage, startling an open-mouthed Pete in the process.  
“Dude!” Pete said. “Talk about ruining the moment!”  
“I’m sorry,” replied the old wizard. “Old habits die hard.”  
Pete stared at him with a squint in his eye. “Now, let me guess… Merlin, right?”  
“My my, they do indeed pick astute agents nowadays!”  
“Ha!” the astute agent said. “Well, I don’t like to boast but you know…”  
Merlin raised an eyebrow to intone “Hmm… Yes, yes…” 

As the women tenderly let go of each other, they eyes finally locking together, the floor runes grew brighter.  
“Ladies,” the old man said. “It is time.”  
Myka, her heart beating at a steady and strong pace in her chest, took the deepest breath as she looked down to lift her right hand up and reveal a gleaming gold band, pulsating with life, at the centre of her slowly opening palm. After a brief look at the artefact, Helena reached down into her jacket pocket to extract the purple jewellery box and expose its content. The rings were undulating in sync, both alive, yet both suspended in isolation.  
The dark-eyed agent pulled the gold band out of the box which she let drop to her feet, and took the other woman’s left hand in hers to delicately place the ring on her finger.  
Glancing back at Helena, Myka felt a slight flutter inside as she, in turn, dressed her partner’s hand with the now vibrant artefact.  
“Whatever happens, my darling,” Helena said boring deep into Myka’s eyes. “Now I know you’ll live.”  
“Helena…” Myka replied as their fingers laced together, their gaze ablaze with each other. 

The walls of the temple suddenly burst with a white light almost impossible to bear. Still the old wizard and Pete looked on to witness the most beautiful display either of them had ever seen, for in the midst of the radiance, two luminescent constellations materialised around the entwined women. Rising above Helena, the vibrant blue outlines of a unicorn reared in exuberance, while soaring over Myka, a phoenix in mid flight spread wide its amber wings. They were reeling, their entire beings submerged with a roaring grace that filled them from head to toe with each other’s very essence. They were one. Blessed. Restored. Whole. 

Silently observing the miracle ahead, Merlin slowly raised his arm up to secure the object he now knew would finally come to him once more. Odin’s spear, inconspicuous as may be, took shape in his outstretched hand. 

Slowly, the intensity of the whirling moment turned into a spring breeze, as stone, air, light and sensations all dimmed down to lower levels, leaving renewed lifeblood in their wake.  
Myka and Helena threw quiet smiles at each other as their naked fingers untangled, the rings now gone and replaced by a single pebble that fell to Myka’s swift hand when it escaped their pressed palms. They studied it in silence. 

“Err, would somebody mind telling me what the hell just happened?” Pete ventured, scratching the top of his head. “No, I mean, I enjoy a good light show same as anyone but that was some serious juju there, guys. Did one of you borrow Dennis Gabor’s microscope or something?”  
Myka and Helena exchanged concerted glances and burst into laughter.  
“Aww, poor little Pete is feeling left out,” Helena said casually draping an arm over Myka’s shoulder.  
Merlin took a step forward. “I shall be having that back now, thank you,” he commanded, calmly making his way over to the couple who suddenly remembered that one of them was holding what was possibly the most important artefact ever.  
As he reached both women, Gungnir a firm extension of his right arm, he extended his free hand to receive Arthur Pendragon’s stone. “Thank you,” he said looking at them intently in turn and clutching the stone tightly. And with that, the world around H.G. Wells started to blur. 

* * *

## Epilogue

Her eyes fluttered open. Her breathing echoing that of the chest her head was resting upon, H.G. Wells slowly shifted to wake her muscles up, careful not to disturb the sleeping figure below her as she removed her arm from across the slender waist, a cigar gently following in the folds of crumpled bed sheets. She picked it up, observed it for a second and, with a little stretch, turned to look at Myka who seemed ever so peaceful as Helena noticed a flush of colour on her cheeks that had been absent before. Brushing a stray curl away from the woman’s forehead, fingertips grazing over her skin as her own hair curtained across her shoulder, she couldn’t help but wonder if the artefact she was holding had worked its magic, or if it, indeed, had all been a dream.  
Averting her gaze, she dug into her jacket pocket for the jewellery box but only found a crumpled piece of paper. Fumbling left, then right. Checking her jeans and the inside pocket that didn’t exist. Looking on and under the bed where finally, she saw it, open and empty. The ring was gone. And with it, any doubt that it had all been in vain.  
The stone was whole again. 

The wizard’s story had been a rather incredible one and of course, whether the great Merlin had anything to do with the Warehouse in reality would most likely remain a mystery, however Helena couldn’t help but feel that somehow, some elements of truth remained. After all, she had never come across any explanation as to why the Warehouse had always felt so — alive. There was every possibility that it could indeed be an extension of a living being, and with the stone bonding Warehouse and caretaker, such as it had bonded her and Myka, as two halves coming together as something far greater than the sum of its parts, what better way to explain the longevity and health the caretaker always inevitably enjoyed. 

“Helena…?” A drowsy Myka uttered, shaking the woman out of her reverie. “I had the most unbelievable dream…”  
“Sshhh…” whispered Helena, her fingers landing delicately on Myka’s lips. “I know.”  
She leant over questioning eyes that flitted in-between that impossible sea of blue and green to place a tender kiss on her brow.  
“Sleep, darling Myka,” she said with a warm smile. “You’re safe now.”  
And with one last look at that other part of her already settling back into a deep sleep, H.G. Wells quietly walked away feeling that one thing that had eluded her for over a century. Peace.


End file.
